1
SORA
“I don’t like her hair,” my father says to my mother, his scrutinizing gaze severe as he inspects me from head to toe. “She’s supposed to look like a promising young bride, not an old maid.”
Sprawled casually across the garden’s half wall, my brother snorts, his smirk smug as he props himself up on one elbow, clearly amused by our father’s assessment.
Not that I would expect any different from Kenji.
We aren’t exactly close.
I’ve long since decided to stop taking it personally.
My older brother doesn’t like anybody.
So, why should I be special?
The only person he does respect is my father, and when my father casts Kenji a sharp glance, my brother quickly grows silent.
“We might not like the Chiaroscuros, but we need to impress them if we’re going to solidify this arrangement,” our father reminds us sharply. Grasping my jaw, he tilts my chin until I have to meet his gaze, and my heart anxiously skips a beat. “That means you must be perfect, Sora. Is that understood?”
“Yes,Otosama,” I breathe.
I was born and raised for this life, educated to be a perfect Yakuza wife, to run a house so my husband can manage the business.
I never dreamed I might be faced with marrying an Italian Mob Boss instead—let alone our family’s worst enemy.
The only thought more terrifying than that is angering my father.
And I know better than to raise my objections.
Not again.
His sharp gaze grows more intense, his brows pressing into a frown as his fingers tighten painfully around my jaw. “Just remember, Sora, you are a Tanaka—even after you’re married, we are your family. You will always belong to us. You must not lose sight of that.”
Something about his tone gives his words extra weight, as though he’s imparting some critical truth that my very survival rests upon, and a shiver runs down my spine.
My father isn’t one to waste breath on sentimentality, so I know he doesn’t mean it like that.
But this could be the closest I’ll ever come to hearing him say, “I love you.”
Or maybe he’s warning me not to betray him in some way.
I honestly can’t say.
Heart racing, I can’t seem to speak past the cold fear gripping my throat, so I nod to confirm I’ve heard him.
He gives a single jerk of the head, acknowledging my response before dropping his hand.
And only after he releases me does the fist around my chest loosen enough that I can breathe again.
His eyes shift to look over my left shoulder. “Fix her hair. Something alluring but still fitting for a young woman. Our guests will be arriving within the hour.”
“Yes, Tanaka-sama.” My lady’s maid gives a respectful bow, following as my mother takes my elbow to steer me back into the house.
My cheeks burn with humiliation.
The thought of being primped and primed into the picture-perfect bride feels that much more insulting when I know my father positively loathes the Chiaroscuro family for whom we’re putting on this whole production.
